A year and a half ago, Malachi knew who the enemy was. He was his father’s son. A scribe of Mikhael’s line. Taking vengeance on the sons of the Fallen. He walked alone, with no mate and no family.

And then…

One moment in the market. One glance from a golden eye. Like a small rudder charting the path of a massive ship, the course of his life had turned with a single touch.

Ava.

He had died. He had lived. He held a mate in his arms and in his heart. Everything he knew about his race’s history he now questioned. Everything he’d trusted could be a lie. He was fighting alongside his enemies to protect the one person he could no longer live without. He would play the pawn in Jaron’s games and play the comrade to a villain, all so he could be a hero for the one woman who called him home.

There was no reason to feel peace as he walked through the snow-dusted streets of Vienna, but he did.

Damien, Rhys, Kostas, and an unknown scribe met him outside the town house.

“Are you ready?” his watcher asked.

“Are you?”

Damien gave him half a smile. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s time.”

THE house the stranger took them to was hidden behind a block of new construction on the other side of the river. They walked in silence, the empty scent of Kostas a void to Malachi’s senses.

“You’ve told your brothers?” Damien asked the unknown scribe quietly.

A nod was his only answer.

“Do they know what he is?”

The strange scribe held up a single gloved finger. One.

“We thank you both for your help.”

Malachi and Kostas exchanged a look, but he could see the Grigori was as lost as he was. Rhys walked behind them, texting with someone as they walked. When they reached the house, he remained waiting outside.

“Waiting for a call,” was his only explanation.

They entered the warm house and stomped their feet, taking off their boots and coats before the stranger motioned them down a narrow hallway.

He was a big man, dark of hair and face, with features that spoke of the Eastern Mediterranean. Malachi realized that while he’d removed his gloves and overcoat, his hands remained wrapped and his neck was covered in what looked like linen strips. He walked in a shroud, silently motioning them into a room at the end of the hallway.

It was a ritual room, carved wooden panels bearing the spells of hundreds of scribes. Malachi narrowed his eyes and stepped closer.

“Of course,” he said when he finally interpreted the passage over the door. “They’re Rafaene scribes.”

Kostas whispered, “What?”

Damien nodded. “Our guide is our friend Evren’s son. He took vows in Spain last year, and his father intervened for us. I believe only he and his watcher know we are here.”

“And they agreed to help us?” Malachi asked. “Rafaenes are removed from politics.”

“But their mission commands shelter and protection of those in need.”

Kostas asked, “What is a Rafaene scribe?”

“You need to take off your clothes,” Damien said. “All of them. Every stitch. I’ll explain as we wrap you, but the process takes some time and we don’t have much of it.”

The stranger motioned to Malachi and he went to him, taking bundle after bundle of fine linen clothes that looked like bandages and stacking them in a basket as Damien spoke to Kostas.

“All Irin males have the same schooling beginning at the age of thirteen. We are trained as both warriors and scholars, though after some time, it becomes evident where our particular gifts lie. Scholars tend to retreat to libraries or work in the business world. Warriors go to scribe houses to protect humans and hunt Grigori.”

“Yes,” Kostas said, “I’m rather familiar with those.”

“For some,” Damien continued, “particularly those of the angel Rafael’s line, the cost of being a warrior comes at great cost. Rafael’s line is known for their healing ability. For Rafael’s sons, even though they are of great skill, hunting takes a toll. To help with this, the Rafaene order was established hundreds of years ago.”

Kostas looked at the man stacking bundles of linen. “He is a warrior?”

“A deadly opponent I would not like to meet in battle, despite his age,” Damien said.

Malachi saw the young Rafaene smile, but he did not stop his task, dipping each bundle of linen in the clear water heating over the sacred fire.

“Rafaenes take a vow of silence and eschew any unnecessary contact,” Damien explained. “They wrap their bodies in clean linen to deprive the senses and maintain quiet as much as physically possible. The idea is to take those years of silence and sensory isolation to practice meditation so they do not lose their souls in battle.”

“A respite,” Kostas said, nodding. “I understand this. But why are they helping us?”

“They care for those in need, particularly the injured or mentally distressed. Evren, one of Orsala’s peers, spoke to his son’s watcher, explaining about your women—do not be afraid he will break confidence, he gave me his word.”

Kostas tossed Malachi a grim smile. “I suppose the word of a silent monk is about as secure as it gets, eh?”

“I’d agree,” Malachi said. “But they’re not monks. Rafaene scribes take vows for seven years only. Then they are required to reenter the world. That is the maximum amount of time the council allows for meditation.”